One Hundred Sleepless Nights
by luxcurious
Summary: AU in which the Avengers manage to settle their differences and become a team again, with the addition of a very lovable Spider-Man. (Full Summary inside, rated M for triggers).
1. Chapter One

**A/N:** This story was recently deleted by me from this forum, but now I'm reposting it. This story is also cross-posted on ao3 under the same title and username. I recommend reading it there if you can.

 **Full Summary:** Three months after the earth-shattering discoveries made in Siberia, Captain America reached out to his former friend to try and make amends. Tony agreed, knowing just how much the world still needed the Rogue Avengers. Within a week, the whole team was under the same roof once again.

But while the rest of the Avengers are playing catch-up, Spider-Man—a.k.a. 15 year old Peter Parker—is struggling. Unwilling to ask for help and risk bringing attention to his mounting list of problems, Peter tries to singlehandedly prevent his life from falling apart.

Unfortunately for him, his rotten Parker luck has other plans.

 **Trigger Warnings: **( _Note: this list pertains only to this chapter.)_ Swearing, Self-Depreciation

 ** _o0o_**

Peter Parker doesn't like his own reflection.

He dislikes it so much, in fact, that he stares in the mirror every morning, silent and judging as he counts every scar and bruise til they all blur together into one big, ugly blemish.

But eventually, once he can no longer separate the individual failures mapped out across his skin, Peter speaks. He whispers to his reflection, telling it sweet lies that he desperately wishes were true.

This little routine is the only way Peter manages to survive living in his own skin.

Currently, he's in the middle of the second step, and he's chatting to his shirtless mirror self, a faux-confident smile on his face.

(The lies are easier to swallow with it.)

"You're awesome, Peter," he tells himself, trying to ignore the sound of his shaky, adolescent voice. "No, you're not awesome—you're incredible—you're _amazing."_

Standing up and strutting across the room, Peter leaps onto the far wall, across his bed, and scrambles up to sit on the ceiling.

"See!" He exclaims, forcing a note of excitement into his tone. "You're the _amazing Spider-Man!_ No one's as cool as you."

Peter drops down in front of the mirror once again, dragging his gaze back to his reflection. He nearly gags as he pretends to flex his non-existent muscles, hating how utterly _pathetic_ he looks.

"You're hot stuff," he says instead, hiding his disgust easily. "Hotter than ghost pepper-sriracha chilli!

"You're the greatest superhero New York has ever seen," he continues with concealed bitterness, deepening his voice in an attempt to resemble Thor. "You're as brave as a lion; you practically _ooze_ confi—"

Suddenly, Peter feels the familiar tingle at the base of his skull, and he whips around, no doubt looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

Captain America is leaning against his door frame, his thick, muscular arms crossed over his even more muscular chest. He's wearing his new suit, the navy blue and black one that just makes him look even more sexy and intimidating. His neatly-trimmed beard can't hide the amusement that's clear on his face.

Peter is absolutely horrified.

The teen can only watch as the super soldier doubles over in laughter, clutching his sides like a lifeline.

 _He's laughing at you, Peter,_ his brain hisses. Peter visibly flinches, but Steve's still too busy laughing to notice. _He's laughing at how pathetic you are—at how disgusting you are. He's seeing every single time you failed from the scars all over your body, and he's thinking just how crazy it is for you to even be here. He's laughing at you because you're a mistake, Peter. Just like Flash and everyone else at school always say._

Peter can feel the tears coming, and he draws in on himself, turning away from the man he'll never be nearly as good as. He wraps his arms around his stomach, almost like he's hugging himself.

Really, he's just trying not to fall apart.

"Please don't tell anyone," he finally whispers.

Abruptly, the Captain's laughter stops, and Peter can _hear_ the straightening of the man's spine, each vertebrae cracking loudly.

The sound makes Peter want to rip his own ear drums out.

But he doesn't move, he doesn't even breathe, not until the older man answers.

And he supposes his voice just sounds so _small,_ so full of _shame_ and _fear,_ that Steve—the beautiful, selfless soul—can't help but grant him that one wish.

"I won't," the Captain says softly, before turning around and exiting the room, closing the door gently behind him.

 ** _o0o_**

Peter doesn't leave his quarters until dinner.

When he does, the whole team is already gathered in the communal living room, half sat in front of the TV and waiting for the other half to finish getting their food.

"Look who decided to show up!" Mr. Stark shouts, his signature smirk gracing his face. Peter stiffens, but quickly relaxes, forcing a tried smile to his face.

"Sorry," he answers softly. Too softly—he clears his throat, making his grin bigger and his voice louder. The amount of effort it takes is worrying. "I'm just really tired today. Homework's been a bitch, lately."

"Language," Clint pipes up from his seat, head laying in Natasha's lap as one of her hands cards through his hair absentmindedly. Peter rolls his eyes, a thin veil of strained amusement masking his true annoyance.

It's not Clint's fault Peter isn't in the mood for jokes. These days, he never really is.

"Yeah, sure," Mr. Stark interrupts the teen's thoughts, still smirking at him. "I'm sure you've been up late because of homework, and not because of the mysterious and elusive ' _MJ_ ' you were texting the other day."

Peter feels his face heat up, despite the lack of truth to Mr. Stark's sarcastic words. MJ really is just a good friend of his—nothing more, and nothing less. It would be kind of impossible for him to be interested in her anyway, considering MJ is a girl who's only into girls, and Peter's a guy who's only into guys.

Of course, no one on the team knows that Peter is gay—he wouldn't ever dream of telling them. While the logical side of Peter knows that they wouldn't shun him or kick him off the team for his sexual orientation, he still thinks it's best if he keeps the information to himself. After all, even the most accepting of people are still uncomfortable sharing a locker room with him, despite having no problems with it before.

(Peter knows this from experience).

"Really, it's just homework," Peter finally mumbles, and he really wishes Mr. Stark would just drop it. He absolutely _hates_ having to pretend in front of the team, and he _hates_ having to hide who he is, but when they pester him about girls, he doesn't have any other choice.

Mr. Stark snorts disbelievingly.

"Mhmm, and I'm Winston Churchill," he retorts cheerily. "But, whatever! If you don't wanna share with the class, that's fine. But at least get your lazy, no-good teenager ass moving so we can play the damn movie."

Peter distantly hears someone scold Mr. Stark for his swearing, but he can't tell who. His body is on autopilot, carrying him over to the kitchen counter to stare unseeingly at the styrofoam boxes of food.

Finally spotting the box marked "PeePee" _(yeah, real mature, Clint),_ Peter tries to ignore the ache deepening in his chest at his mentor's words. Rationally, he knows Mr. Stark is most likely just teasing him, but his self-confidence is already so low from the fiasco this morning that he can't help but take the comment to heart.

Peter curls up on the empty loveseat in the corner of the room, feeling just a little bit better once he's cloaked in shadows, obscured from the rest of the team. He lets his face drop and his shoulders sag, tucking his knees against his chest as he presses himself into the arm of the couch. His styrofoam box is propped up on one hand, and he listlessly stirs the fried rice and kung-pow chicken with the other.

Suddenly the couch dips, and Peter straightens his spine, scooching even closer to the arm. It takes a second for him to realize the identity of his new seatmate, but once he does, anxiety washes over him like a ten foot wave.

"So," Steve asks, obviously feigning casualty. Peter almost winces in sympathy at the failed attempt. "What happened this morning?"

Peter scrambles for a half decent lie. While Cap is certainly not the hardest of the Avengers to fool, he's also not the easiest.

"I was embarrassed," the teen finally admits, deciding to go with a toned-down version of the truth. "I didn't exactly want anyone to see me calling myself ghost-pepper-sriracha-flavored chilli."

Steve laughs at that, and Peter breathes a little easier. Despite the pang in his chest at bringing up the humiliating memory, he feels relieved, knowing that he's in the clear.

"Well, I'm sorry for embarrassing you, kiddo," the older man says apologetically, reigning in his amusement. Peter smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"S'okay," he answers quietly, suddenly all too aware of the stillness of the room. "Just… try not to sneak up on me next time."

Steve laughs again before standing up and walking back over to the rest of the group, effectively ending their conversation.

Most of Peter is relieved that the Captain has ceased his little interrogation, but a small, selfish part of him wishes he wasn't left to sit alone.

Again.

Sighing quietly, Peter glances at his mess of a meal and wrinkles his nose, appetite non-existent. He forces a few forkfuls of rice into his mouth anyway, but gives up when the nausea nearly overwhelms him.

Surrendering to the fact that eating is apparently just not on his schedule today, Peter gently sets the styrofoam box on the floor next to him. He curls up on the loveseat and closes his eyes, letting the terrible, cheesy dialogue of _Casablanca_ lull him to sleep.

 ** _o0o_**

Peter wakes up hours later, still on the couch and with a crick in his neck. He's just about to stretch out his limbs with a loud yawn when a hushed conversation reaches him, no doubt thanks to his super-hearing.

"Is it just me, or did the spider-kid seem a little off tonight?"

Peter's breath catches. That's Mr. Stark's voice.

"Yeah, about that…" Steve's deep baritone answers, and Peter can practically _feel_ the amusement beneath the man's sheepish tone.

(The fact that he's just a joke to Steve stings, but it's not entirely unexpected. Peter is just a joke to a lot of people, so he's used to the feeling).

"Damnit Cap, what did you do this time?" The mechanic asks, voice exasperated, but the same wisps of humor are present.

(That hurts a little more, considering how close he and Mr. Stark had once been. Although they haven't spent much quality time together since Peter agreed to join the Avengers, the teen was reluctant to admit that the whole "dad act" was likely just a ploy to get him on the team. But now that he's hearing first hand what Tony really thinks of him, Peter can't deny it any longer. It hurts, but he's not mad. He understands. Peter wouldn't want to be friends with himself, either.)

"I kinda walked in on him while he was getting dressed," Cap answers, making Peter's cheeks heat up. He supposes the half truth is better than the whole one, but he still wishes the super-soldier would've come up with something better.

Mr. Stark snorts, and the familiar sound of him cuffing the back of Steve's head would be endearing if Peter's humiliation wasn't the reason for it.

"Oh, I'm sure the kid's pasty skin and left-over baby fat was just _so_ attractive," Mr. Stark jabs playfully, but Peter's heart drops into his stomach.

"Ugh, Tony, don't even joke about that, it's gross," Steve replies, his tone one of genuine disgust.

Mr. Stark cackles as Peter's heart plunges from his stomach all the way to the floor, and tears push heavily against the backs of his eyes. They burn as they spill over, and Peter finds himself incredibly glad that his back is to the room's inhabitants, his face hidden in the crease of the couch.

Peter waits in miserable silence for Mr. Stark and Steve to finish their conversation—which has moved away from the topic of him, thank God—as the tears fall, but the taste of salt on his lips mixes with the smell of cold Chinese food and makes him feel like he's going to vomit. Just as he's about to hit his breaking point and puke all over the sofa, Steve and Mr. Stark finally part ways, the former going to his bedroom, and the latter to his labs.

According to his spidey-senses, neither man even spares Peter a glance.

And yet, he waits another three minutes—counting every second—before he gets up and speed walks to the communal half-bath, slumping down to hug the white porcelain as he dry heaves into the toilet bowl.

Only after ten minutes does Peter remember that there's nothing in his stomach for him to throw up.

And so, after a minute of just laying with his head pressed against the cool bathroom floor in a desperate attempt to stop the nausea, Peter gives up and leaves, heading for the kitchen.

He wants to be useful to make up for being AWOL all day, even if he hadn't actually had anything in particular planned. But the way Mr. Stark called him lazy earlier doesn't sit right with him, so he decides to clean the mess of a kitchen, washing dishes and stacking plates until his legs are wobbly and his vision edges black.

The teen just sighs tiredly when he realizes he's only half way done by 2:30 a.m.

 _What's one more sleepless night?_ He ponders silently as he scrubs the soy sauce stains from the crisp white tiles of the kitchen floor. _I can go one more night without sleep, easy peasy._

 ** _o0o_**

That morning, at 5:45 a.m., before anyone else is up, Peter wakes up lying face down on the sparkling kitchen floor. He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N: **Sorry for the weird "o0o" line breaks. I'm new to posting on this platform, and I haven't figured out how to do normal line breaks on the app, which is where I post from. I previously posted from the website itself, but that was super complicated and time consuming, so I switched. Anyway, enough of logistics. Thank you for the reviews! I can hesitantly say that there should be updates at least once a week up until Chapter Eight, as I have all of those already written. (I say "hesitantly" because I'm a Junior in high school, and sometimes I don't even have time to sleep, lol). After that, I'm not sure. I always update on ao3 first since that is my perferrred platform, so if you get really desperate, feel free to check over there. Once again, this story is cross-posted on ao3 under the same title and username, but nowhere else. If you see it anywhere else, please let me know, as I have not authorized it to be there. Thank you for reading, and enjoy Chapter 2!

 **Trigger Warnings:** _(Note: this list pertains only to this chapter.)_ Swearing, Self-Depreciation, Bullying, Threats of Violence, EDNOS Thoughts and Behaviors, References to Past Suicidal Thoughts/Actions, Homophobia (H-slur, F-slur, D-slur)

 ** _o0o_**

That morning, after waking up on the kitchen floor, Peter has just enough time to stand up and pour himself a glass of water before Sam comes wandering in.

"Hey, Peter," the man says quietly, obviously trying to avoid making too much noise. "How did you sleep last night?"

Peter smiles at his teammate, grabbing the carton of orange juice from the fridge and handing it over. He hasn't had the chance to complete his morning ritual yet, and it's making him antsy.

"I slept okay," he answers softly, trying to ignore the pain in his body that disagrees. Clearing his throat and walking his now-empty glass over to the sink, Peter pretends to bite back a smile, knowing his lie will be more believable if it's followed up with a joke. "I was knocked out during most of _Casablanca_ , anyway."

Sam chuckles, downing the last of his orange juice. Peter puts the carton away and moves the dirty cup into the sink without hesitation. He doesn't want Sam to think he's lazy like Mr. Stark does.

"Yeah, I'm with you on that," the older man says, bending over to tie his shoelaces. "I fell asleep after the first scene myself."

Peter smiles widely when Sam straightens back up, trying to appear amused. It's not that he doesn't like talking to Sam—in fact, Sam is probably his favorite teammate to talk to nowadays, except for maybe Bruce.

No, the reason Peter has to fake a smile for his friend is simple.

Nothing makes him happy anymore.

It all started when Ben died. Peter had been so wrapped up in feelings of grief, anger, and guilt, that he just didn't have any room left over for anything else.

Of course, being Spider-Man had helped with that. It'd let him channel those feelings into something productive—something that made him feel _useful_ and _important_.

But then The Incident happened a few months later, and the bullying became nearly unbearable.

At one point, Peter had suffered a locker-room beating so bad that he had to stop doing patrol for almost a month.

(Peter changes in the janitor's closet now.)

With the absence of Spider-Man, there was nothing left to give Peter any sort of relief. So, naturally, the hurt from the hateful words his classmates spat at him crept in, filling the empty space so rapidly that Peter was almost lost in it.

(It was around then that Peter learned his healing factor was annoyingly good at keeping him alive.)

And then, like a god-sent intervention, _Tony fucking Stark_ showed up in his living room the day he planned to learn the taste of lead.

Peter had taken it as sign, and shamefully realized that it was selfish of him to deprive the world of a protector, no matter how small or useless he was. When he was out as Spider-Man, he helped people, and sometimes even saved people's lives. Putting a bullet in his own head meant that any unfortunate soul in Queen's might get one in theirs—and that was something that Peter simply could not allow.

Peter is pulled out of his musings by the feeling of someone ruffling his hair, and he stiffens automatically, tense and ready to fight before belatedly realizing that it's just Sam.

"Bye, kid!" Sam says enthusiastically, apparently not realizing how close he'd been to being judo flipped six feet under by the teen.

"Bye," Peter calls back meekly, knowing Sam probably won't hear him anyway.

For a moment after the other man's departure, Peter stands still as a statue in the middle of the kitchen, debating whether or not to make himself breakfast.

He glances towards the counter, staring blankly at the spot where Mr. Stark and Steve had sat the night before.

Peter decides he isn't hungry.

Instead, he shuffles listlessly back to his room, locking the door behind him before moving to the mirror.

Numbly, Peter's trembling hands clutch the hem of his shirt and slowly pull it off. He keeps his eyes closed, a sense of foreboding thick in the air around him, making it hard to breathe.

Peter's shirt doesn't make a sound as it lays itself haphazardly across his floor, brushing against his toes in a way that makes him shudder. He kicks it away, watching it's descent against the opposite wall.

Amidst the fluttering of black fabric, he spots the familiar red and gold of the Iron Man logo.

Quickly, Peter turns back to the mirror, forcing his critical gaze to travel up and down his body for the first time that morning.

As per usual, he counts every scar and bruise, recalling each event that gave him them. He relives the shame of his failures, festering in it until he's itching to rip himself out of his own skin.

Just as he's about to shift into the second step of his ritual, a chill slips in through his open window and reminds him of the shirt sitting discarded on the other side of his room. The Iron Man logo flashes in his mind's eye.

 _"Oh, I'm sure the kid's pasty skin and left-over baby fat was just so attractive."_

Peter glances at the mirror again, noticing the bump of his stomach over the waistband of his pajama pants and the annoying fullness of his cheeks.

 _Frogface,_ Clint had once called him, poking fun at the youthful roundness of Peter's facial structure. At the time, Peter had begrudgingly thought it was funny. But now, the thought just makes him want to cry.

 _When did this happen?_ Peter wonders desperately, glaring balefully at his reflection.

He's never hated it as much as he does in that moment.

 ** _o0o_**

It's two days after overhearing Mr. Stark's and Steve's conversation and Peter is walking up the steps to his school, Ned and MJ at his side.

Ned is telling him about the new Death Star LEGO Set his parents got him for his birthday last week when someone bumps into Peter, sending his books to the ground. Immediately, he crouches, beginning to gather his things back together. He doesn't need to look up to see who it is—he already knows.

"Watch where you're going, _Penis_ ," Flash taunts, but Peter can feel his heartbeat speeding up and his hands getting clammy, so he just ignores the older boy.

Apparently, Flash doesn't like being ignored.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, Parker," he snarls, shoving Peter's shoulder and sending him toppling over, flat on his butt.

(Peter could've easily stayed upright, but he decided a long time ago that keeping his identity a secret is more important than his pride.)

Flash laughs, unaware of MJ's glare. Peter gulps. That's MJ's "I'ma-fuck-your-shit-up" glare, and having been on the receiving end of it once or twice himself, he almost feels sorry for Flash.

That is, until he bends down and snatches Peter's sketchbook off the ground, beginning to flip though it idly.

Peter doesn't think, he just reacts. He's off the ground and literally _lunging_ at Flash before he even realizes his body is moving.

Unfortunately, Peter stumbles slightly and the older boy is able to side-step his impressive gymnastics. Flash reads from the sketchbook, cruel amusement in his voice.

 _"Cerulean and sunshine_

 _soft sand and rumbling waves_

 _salt-kissed lips cracked and smiling..."_

With mounting horror, Peter recognizes the poem as one he'd written years ago about his hero-worship crush on Captain America. Despite harboring no feelings for the man since he'd dropped a jet bridge on Peter in Germany, the reminder of Steve prods the open wound in his heart, still unhealed after the conversation he'd overheard Saturday night.

Peter is frozen as time slows down around him. He can't hear Flash's voice anymore, and everyone seems to be moving at a snail's pace, like they're wading through molasses.

Peter can recall Mr. Stark's voice clear as day as he makes fun of his 'baby fat,' and the revulsion Steve uses when he agrees with him.

The thought makes him regret eating breakfast this morning.

 _"...whisper across the vastness_

 _separating lands like an icy aby—"_

Peter is pulled out of his dizzying trance when a large, blurry shape zooms past his head, traveling faster than everything else and shattering the spell. Flash's voice cuts off abruptly as he drops Peter's sketchbook and clutches his head, moaning.

Peter is still shell-shocked, too terrified to even process the fact that people are laughing at him from the sidelines, and that he should just _grab his stuff and get the fuck out of there._

Thankfully, MJ and Ned are still acting like functioning human beings, and Peter lets Ned lead him away while MJ retrieves her backpack and Peter's sketchbook from beside Flash, who's now swaying slightly on the steps, looking dazed and confused.

It takes Peter a moment to process everything, but when he does, he turns to Ned, an incredulous and slightly impressed look on his face.

"Did she just throw her entire backpack at him?" He asks, wincing at the thought of all the heavy books undoubtedly stashed in the bag.

"Yeah," Ned answers happily, a proud smile on his face.

Peter just nods. MJ is someone he doesn't think he'll ever fully understand, but after knowing the girl for years, he's accepted that as a fact of life.

A minute later, MJ catches up to them, her nose tucked back in a book and one hand extended, Peter's sketchbook resting securely in her grip.

Peter takes the book back gently, running his hands over the worn cover as he whispers his thanks to his friend. She just hums quietly, which Peter knows is MJ-speak for "no problem."

They walk the rest of the way to the library in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

 ** _o0o_**

Peter's first four periods go by much too fast, and before he knows it, he's sitting by himself at a table in the corner of the cafeteria, his rumbling stomach protesting the empty tray in front of him.

MJ is meeting with her History teacher and Ned left early for a doctor's appointment, so Peter is alone.

(Minus the mating whale that has apparently taken up residence in his abdomen, of course.)

Logically, Peter knows that he needs to eat something if he doesn't to want to feel like a zombie for the rest of the day. His metabolism is much too fast to run on fumes.

He pinches the bit of squishy skin on his hip bones, frowning deeply.

"What's one more skipped meal?" He mumbles under his breath, pushing his empty tray away with more force than necessary. "I can go a few more hours without food, easy peasy."

Suddenly, Peter's spidey-senses tingle dully at the base of his skull, just enough to make him aware of the person striding towards him.

Peter already knows who it is— _it's always him_ —but he looks up anyway, sighing tiredly at the angry look on Flash's face.

Upon arriving at Peter's table, Flash opens his mouth to speak, but the younger boy cuts him off, hoping to stem the flood of hateful words before they even begin.

"Hey, Flash, I'm _so_ sorry about this morning. I don't know what MJ was thinking—is your head okay? She's got a crap ton of hardcovers in there, I wouldn't be surprised if it left a bruise…"

Peter is rambling and he knows it, desperately trying to delay the inevitable. At first Flash is shocked by _Peter Parker_ apologizing to _him_ , but as the teen continues to speak, his demeanor sours once again.

"Shut the fuck up, Parker," Flash finally barks, annoyance clear in his tone. "I don't care about what that freaky dyke bitch reads, I just caring about making her pay. And since you're a homo too, I might as well do that through you."

Peter's vision goes red.

His hands are fisted tightly under the table, nails slicing crescent moons into his palms. He's grinding his teeth so hard that the scraping of molars against molars is all he can hear. He stands up, body shaking with barely concealed rage as he levels Flash with the most menacing glare in his arsenal.

"Don't you _ever_ talk about MJ like that again, do you hear me?" Peter whispers dangerously, low enough so that only the other boy can hear him. "Say whatever you want about me, but if I see you even so much as _look_ at her wrong after today, I'll gouge your fucking eyes out."

With that, Peter steps away, the rush of anger-filled adrenaline melting away like snow on the first day of Spring. Peter's entire body hurts, and his exhaustion is bone deep—so much so that he's almost afraid to walk.

As the teen shakily makes his retreat, he notices the marginally terrified look on Flash's face morph back to one of anger. Thankfully, Peter manages to blend in with the shadows of the cafeteria well enough to escape the older boy's notice, and he slips out the backdoors.

He's knows he can't go back to school today, not with Flash still strutting around. In Peter's current state of mind, it would only take one rude comment from the boy and he would snap.

(Peter doesn't want to hurt anybody, but sometimes, he can't contain the anger that's always simmering under the surface of his skin, like trapped pockets of air. It's days like these, when he's too tired to fight the urges, that he can almost see the appeal of lethal combat.)

 _This isn't a battlefield, Peter!_ The teen reminds himself as he walks past the small parking lot and the football field, officially leaving school grounds. _It's just a bit of name-calling, the same shit you've been dealing with for years._

Peter continues to berate himself for almost losing his cool with Flash for the rest of his walk, only stopping when he finally arrives at his usual street-corner in East Brooklyn.

The thought of what he's about to do makes his stomach lurch, so Peter focuses on his breathing, brown eyes scanning the horizon as the cold from the brick wall he's leaning against seeps into his bones.


End file.
